


with a peaceful mind

by justdrifting



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 13:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14833442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justdrifting/pseuds/justdrifting
Summary: Seven times John reveals his feelings and runs, and the one time Joss doesn't let him get far.





	with a peaceful mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



In a downtown city morgue, John Reese twists a bullet between his fingers and tells her things she’d never even dreamed she’d hear from him. When he reaches for her, his hand trembles—like she’s something precious, elusive and untouchable; like he’s unsure whether he has the right.

Joss wraps her fingers around his wrist, steadying. _It’s okay_ , she hopes her touch conveys. _It’s okay_.

She doesn’t get a chance to react, after. Truthfully, she’s not sure whether that’s decidedly unfair or a blessing. She’s not sure what she would have said if she had; not with how sudden, how unexpected, his words and his touch and his kiss had been. But– Finch is babbling warnings in John’s ear and HR is closing in around them and there’s a very good chance they’re not going to make it out of this alive, so. She pushes it to the back of her mind and gets on with the job.

In a downtown city morgue, John Reese leaves her to take on HR alone. “I’m sorry, Joss, but I can’t lose you,” he says by way of explanation. He always has had a habit of making her battles his own. 

She lets him go. She doesn’t have a choice, really, but it stings all the same, and she drops her head against the door that separates them in frustration, in defeat, as she listens to the soft tread of his footsteps grow fainter and fainter, until he disappears entirely.

***

“If my time was up, I’m just glad I was with you,” John says. Joss doesn’t think she’s ever seen his eyes this light before, doesn’t think she’s ever seen him so open and untroubled. “No one I’d rather be with at the end.”

He’s so striking that she can do little more than smile back, feeling that same light suffuse her own grin. She should say something, she knows, should match his confessions with one of her own. But she’s afraid– afraid to speak, afraid to react, afraid to do anything that might disturb the delicate peace that has settled over them. His body is relaxed and he seems, simply, happy. So, she tucks her fingers into her jeans and just smiles, smiles.

Walking towards her car, his hand hovers over the small of her back, not touching but _just_. He’s said so much tonight, candid and unguarded in a way she’s never known him to be, in a way she hardly even knew he could be. It makes her feel a little bit out of sorts, off balance from the uncharacteristic honesty she’s seen in him over the last twenty-four hours, still there even now that the danger has receded, and she wonders just how long it can last.

At the driver’s side door, she stops, hand hovering over the handle. She looks up at him searchingly. “John, about what you said earlier…”

John steps back, just a little. His expression hardens, just a little. His gaze shifts towards Finch, flighty all of a sudden.

“I, uh, shouldn’t keep Finch waiting.”

_There it is._

Once, she might have been frustrated, tired of his predictable evasiveness. But all she has for him tonight is affection. This sweet, sweet man. This sweet, _scared_ man. After everything that he’s done for her, after everything that they’ve been through together, it is the easiest thing to give him this—to let him take a step back, regroup, to move at whatever pace he needs.

“Thank you, John,” she says instead. “I couldn’t have done this without you by my side.”

He runs his thumb over the outline of her jaw, warm against her skin. It’s not quite the tender way he’d cupped her face the night before, but some of that light is back, and a sort of wistfulness. He looks like he wants to say more, but after a beat he steps back instead, opening her door so that she can slide in.

“Take care, Joss.”

***

The dress is much tighter than she remembers it. It’s not that she’s self-conscious, exactly, it’s just that… It is _very_ short. Joss pulls at the hem as she steps out of the cab. She’s already running late for drinks with Shaw, and Shaw is grumpy enough as it is, so there’s not much that can be done about it now.

She shucks off her jacket once she steps into the bar, looking around the dimly lit room for Shaw. She spots her at the far end of the bar counter, surrounded by an excessive number of shot glasses and talking to…John?

That’s unexpected.

Her heels click on the floor as she weaves her way through the crowd to them, and John looks up at her approach. Joss is close enough that she can see the movement of his throat as he swallows, and his eyes widen. His gaze trails down her body and it’s long, long moments before he reaches her face again.

_Oh_. She suppresses the smirk that wants to pull at her mouth. This could be interesting.

When she slides onto the empty stool on John’s other side, the hem of her dress rides further up her thigh. John seems suddenly transfixed by the strip of newly revealed skin. She resists the urge to tug the skirt back down for the moment. She has to bite her lip to tamp down the laugh that bubbles in her throat, but she can’t quite contain her bemused smile. Though, he'd have to actually _look_ at her face to notice it. Which he most certainly is not.

 “John?”

He startles, looking up at her with a guilty, wide-eyed expression. And now he’s _only_ looking at her face, focused intensely at a spot just above her eyes, like he’s afraid to look anywhere else. John is usually far more suave, stoic to the point of absurdity. Joss isn’t above admitting the thrill she feels at being able to knock him so off his game.

“Well,” he says after a beat. “I’ve got to–” John practically trips off of the bar stool in his haste to stand. He gestures, with none of his typical grace, to his phone. “Finch needs me, so…”

Joss glances down at the still, blank phone in John’s hand. Finch is definitely _not_ calling. _Coward_ , she thinks, amused. Outwardly, she just smiles magnanimously. “Of course. Stay safe.”

He nods stiffly. Joss expects him to bolt then, and he almost does. But with his body already half turned from her, John hesitates. She watches the muscles in his neck tense and then relax as he seems to steel himself for something. He twists on his heel back around to face her, and his eyes meet hers steadily for the first time that night. “You look beautiful, Joss.”

Her amusement fades, very suddenly, and there’s no helping the swell of fondness within her, the way she’s sure her eyes must soften. She says sincerely, “Thank you.”

John can’t hold her gaze for long; his smile tight, anxious almost. He leaves, striding off into crowd, before either of them can say or do anything more. Joss watches after him for a moment, until his tall frame disappears from view. Once she’s satisfied that he’s gone, Joss rounds on her original companion for the evening, who is looking much too pleased with herself. “That was hardly subtle, Shaw.”

“Wasn't going for subtle,” Shaw replies, practically beaming. “Wanted to see Reese’s reaction. He did not disappoint.”

Joss rolls her eyes. But Shaw is right; he did not.

She climbs onto the stool just vacated by John, and Shaw slides a shot across the bar to her. “Starting something up with Reese? You’re going to need this.”

Joss doesn’t bother arguing, just downs it unceremoniously, the alcohol burning her throat. Shaw laughs and pushes another few glasses over. Joss just shakes her head. She’s played the long game before. John might be skittish, but Joss knows all the moves. She can wait. It’s just how these things go.

***

On Tuesday night, Joss has wine, and the stereo on low, and she’s humming to herself while she prepares an early dinner.

The phone rings. Of course it does.

Turning the music down, she heads into the living room and picks up her cell with a sigh. “Carter.”

“Joss.” John’s voice crackles down the line, and her spine straightens automatically at the urgency of his tone. “I don’t have much time. This thing is going to blow any minute. But I wanted–”

Fear, hot and sharp, stings her chest. She forces it down, focuses on his voice. “John, what’s going on? Where are you?”

“There’s no time,” he says instead. “I’ve tried. But… I’m not going to make it this time, Joss. I’m sorry.”

“Please, John.” She knows she sounds desperate; can’t bring herself to care. “Let me help. We can figure this out.” It’s a script that feels sickeningly familiar, like they’ve been over it and over it too many times already. She thinks of Stanton’s bomb vest, thinks of the barricaded door between them in the morgue, of all the time’s she’s been unable to reach him, and she can’t _breathe_. She doesn’t even know where he is; all she has is his voice over the phone line, and…

“There’s nothing you can do. I didn’t call for that. I just wanted to hear your voice one more time. I wanted…” he trails off. For a moment, the only sound is his breathing. “I have to go. Thank you, Joss, for everything.”

“Wait, John–” But it’s only the dial tone, overly loud in her ear.

She stares down at the phone, willing it to ring again.

It doesn’t.

The room around her feels suddenly cavernous, echoing silence and tilting on its axis as she struggles to gain her bearing. She only vaguely notices her surrounds: a melody, a dog barking, the smell something burning, her neighbours bickering through the wall; drowned out by her heart thumping in her chest and a ringing in her ears and…

She calls Finch. He doesn’t pick up. Neither does Shaw, or Fusco. The room spins. She needs… She grabs her coat and gun and heads for the door. She doesn’t know where she’s going, knows it won’t be any use, but knows she can’t just do nothing, can’t just sit in her apartment and wait for… No.

She’s halfway down the front steps of her building when her phone rings again. She freezes, her heart stuttering in her chest. Looking down at it in her hand, she’s almost afraid to answer, ice cold dread running through her at what the person on the other end might have to say.

“ _John_?”

If this is Finch, telling her–

“Hey,” Johns voice comes through the line, clear and breathtakingly sweet. Joss doesn’t collapse, exactly, but she lowers herself slowly onto the steps lest her legs do give out as powerful relief surges through her.

“Are you okay?” she breathes, cradling the phone in her palm for the lifeline it represents. “How…?”

“Perfectly fine,” John says, and he sounds it. “It was a false alarm.”

“A false…” She feels a little dizzy, as adrenaline seeps from her system.

She can hear the smirk in his voice when he says, “Turns out the fuse hadn’t been connected properly. No boom.”

Her eyes snap open at that, fear giving way to disbelief. He has _got_ to be kidding. He had called her, acting like he was about to die, like her voice was the last thing he wanted to hear in the world, and he hadn’t even… “You didn’t think to _check_?” Her voice is only slightly hysterical, and she figures it’s more than justified. “John, how was that not the first thing you did!”

“Well–”

She hangs up.

***

It has not been a good week. _Clearly_. As Joss trudges up the steps to her apartment, she wants nothing more than to collapse on her couch and just…not have to think for a while. She stops when she walks through the door, though. The air is warm and filled with the smell of spices, and Taylor isn’t meant to be home for at least another hour. The kitchen is empty when she enters cautiously. But the light above the stove is on, illuminating a pot that definitely hadn’t been there this morning. Rounding the counter, she sees that it’s full of food, and there’s a note beside it in John’s messy handwriting.

Right.

God forbid he actually talk to her.

And, okay, so she has been avoiding him. But other than a few long, beseeching looks, he hasn’t tried very hard. She’s just so _angry_ at him. He’d made her think he was about to die when he hadn’t even checked the damn fuse properly. Plus, she’d ruined her favourite skillet because of him, so turned around that she hadn’t even thought to turn the gas off. By the time she’d gotten back there was no saving it. _And_ it had taken her so long because in her haste she’d locked herself out and had to wait in the cold until Taylor came home from his study group. She’s— _he’s_ —lucky he hadn’t caused her to burn the damn apartment down.

The food does smell really good, though. It’s some sort of stew, thick and rich with a medley of spices, and just perfect for the cold, dreary evening. And she is so tired and cooking is the last thing she wants to do tonight. According to John’s note there’s even dessert in the fridge, and she supposes this brand new pot is to make up for the one she’d ruined. The gesture is…sweet, she supposes, in spite of how inappropriate his routine breaking in is.

He’d put her through the ringer, that’s for sure, but he had gone through it too. And, once again, when he’d thought it was the end, he’d wanted to be with her, which is…overwhelming, to be honest, but– Flavour sings on her tongue as she takes a bite. _Damn_ _,_ that’s good. She’d known, theoretically, that John could cook, but she’s never had the pleasure of the experience herself before. She scoops up another mouthful. _Really good_. Okay, so maybe he’s forgiven.

It has been a very long time since someone she cared about cooked for her. She’d been chilled when she’d entered the apartment, but now, with a bowl cradled in her palms, she feels warm all the way through. (Still, it would have been even nicer if he’d stuck around. She thinks she would rather like to share a meal with him. Maybe next time she could even _invite_ him inside, rather than him inviting himself.)

She expects that to be the end of it—an apology offered, unspoken, and accepted, unspoken. All sorted. But two days later, there’s another meal waiting for her after work. Three days after that, another. She’s already forgiven John; she’s speaking to him again and even smiling sometimes. So this is, what, him wooing her? She wishes she could say she was surprised that John Reese’s approach involves breaking into her home and then disappearing again before she can thank him. She is a little bit surprised, though, by just how much she appreciates it.

***

It’s not a big deal. It really isn’t. The graze along her forearm isn’t even going to need stitches. She _aches_ , and she’s going to have some pretty colourful bruises to look forward to, but on the whole she figures she came out pretty okay. She feels a bit foolish, honestly, that’s what bothers her the most. That, _just for a moment_ , she’d looked the wrong way, just enough time for the perp to get the jump on her, knocking her to the ground as they’d both gone tumbling down the stairs. He had gotten a few good hits in, including a blow to the head that had made her eyes water, before she’d regained the upper hand. But, she had caught the guy they’d been chasing for almost two weeks, so. It’s fine. She’s fine.

John doesn’t seem to agree.

She can see him, hovering in the dark just out of sight of the main street, waiting for the scene to clear. He’s hardly moved in the last half hour, his gaze intense and unwavering on her where she sits in the back of an ambulance, being poked and prodded at by a well-meaning paramedic. His expression is stormy; something between anger and—fear?—she thinks.

The longer he stands there, the darker his face gets, so it’s a relief when it becomes safe enough for him to emerge from the shadows. “I’m _fine_ ,” she says, before he even reaches her.

John doesn’t answer. He runs his fingers along her hair line, thumb probing gently at the bump on her forehead. She bites her lip to keep from flinching, but relaxes as he moves his hand lower, over the shell of her ear and then down the back of her neck, coming to rest lightly over her collarbone. She notices that he’s trembling again. His expression softens, the anger clearing. And okay, maybe she had really worried him.

“Really, John, I’m okay.”

He frowns. “I’m taking you home.” It’s a statement, not a question, and normally she would take issue with the almost-order, but she’s just too tired to protest tonight. And, she hates the troubled look in his eyes. They’ve both had their share of close calls lately, and his hand is still not entirely steady where he touches her. She supposes she’ll let him have this.

Not _all_ of it though. There’s something in the way John shifts his body towards her and adjusts his arms that makes Joss stop short. She presses her hand to his chest to stop his approach. “Oh no, don’t you even _think_ about trying to carry me.”

John takes a half step back, holding his hands up in surrender. The worry on his face is replaced, briefly, by his characteristic smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Joss narrows her eyes at him. “ _Sure_.” He has something of a pattern of ridiculous and frankly slightly cliched heroism around her. He’s already appointed himself her protector and invisible bodyguard. Upgrading to some sort of twisted knight in shining armour would certainly fit his MO.

His smirk widens. “Well, maybe I have _dreamed_ about it.”

She slaps at him lightly, somewhat surprised by the forwardness of the statement. He’s a flirt, but usually a bit more subtle. “Stop it.” But he’s made her laugh, despite that she’s exhausted and in pain. “Can we just go, please?”

“Your wish is my command.”

“ _Shut up_.”

She pointedly ignores the hand he offers to help her off the ambulance tray, and strides—independently, thank you very much—ahead to the car.

The mood sours once they’re on the road. The lights from passing cars periodically illuminate John’s stony face, and he doesn’t say a word the entire ride. But, he rests his hand against her back as they walk up the stairs to her apartment and he follows her wordlessly inside. He still hasn’t spoken by the time they reach her bedroom, just stands stoically in the middle of the room. Joss is far too tired to deal with whatever has made him so moody all of a sudden, so she just leaves him there as she heads for the bathroom to clean up.

When she comes back, John has lost his shoes and suit jacket and loosened his shirt, revealing part of the white t-shirt underneath. He’s sitting up on her bed with his back against the headboard and his long legs stretched out in front of him. Joss rolls her eyes. Presumptuous doesn’t even _begin_ to describe this man. Although… It’s not entirely an unenticing sight, she has to admit; John dressed down and in her bed.

It’s just, she probably would have preferred him there with an invitation. And ideally minus the gloomy expression, too. She raises an eyebrow. “So, you’re staying, then?”

His face doesn’t change when he looks at her, and he nods.

Alright, so they’re doing this now.

She switches off the main light, leaving the lamp next to John the only illumination. Climbing into bed, she settles with her back to him. He can stew all he wants, but she’s going to sleep.  After a minute or two, she feels his fingers on her neck, tentative at first, stroking slowly against the hairs at her nape. He moves down, pressing his thumb into the ridges of her spine, before changing direction and beginning to trail seemingly nonsensical patterns over her back. It’s so unexpected, so terribly intimate, and her chest tightens at the tenderness of his touch.

At first, she holds overly still, afraid of startling him, of moving in the wrong way to make him pull away. But as intense as his hand on her is, it’s soothing, too, and she’s almost asleep when she hears his breathing change, catching in his throat. He breathes out, barely audible, “I can’t lose you, Joss.”

He’s said it to her before, but there’d been so much else going on that she hadn’t had time to really _feel_ it. There are no distractions this time. Even after so many weeks, it’s still striking, still sometimes hard to comprehend—the intensity of his feelings for her; the ease with which she accepts her return of them.

She rolls onto her back, his hand slipping to her shoulder. From this angle, the lamplight gives him an almost haunted look, his face half shadowed and his eyes a little lost. She wants to hold his face, to give him what he’d given her in the morgue, but he’s too far away. She settles for her fingers over his wrist, wonders if he’s recalling that night too. “I really am fine.”

“If he’d had a gun, Joss…”

“He didn’t.” She presses the pads of her fingers against the sharp bones of his wrist. “John, you can’t…”

He looks down at her, gaze heavy with unspoken emotion, then away again. “I know.”

She should say more, but his thumb is working rhythmic circles against her shoulder, and her eyes keep slipping shut. “Go to sleep, Joss.” She looks up at him once more to find him smiling down at her, his eyes soft. He moves his hand to stroke over her hair. He is so _gentle_ with her these days. She holds his gaze a moment longer before turning back over onto her side. John resumes his slow movements over her skin, and she’s asleep within minutes.

He’s gone by morning. Joss flops onto her back with a loud sigh. It’s not that she expected any differently, it’s just… She’s a patient person, she really is, but she’s not a _saint_.

***

A bullet ricochets off the top of the concrete wall they’re crouched behind, sending dust and debris showering down over them, and Joss shudders in time with the reverberations against her back.

Shaw ducks back down beside her. She smiles wryly. “Yeah, we’re definitely not getting out that way.”

Another round flies over their heads, lodging into the fence that blocks their escape in the other direction. “The alternative’s not looking so good either,” John adds drily.

Helpful.

The three of them are trapped behind a fairly flimsy wall on a dead-end street, the only exit currently blocked by people trying very hard to kill them. They’ve so far managed to hold off their attackers from approaching any further, but they’re outnumbered and out-ammoed.

It’s… Well, it’s not looking great.

On one side of Joss, Shaw is hissing as discreetly as possible at the voice in her ear, presumably Finch, presumably about how long before Fusco and Root arrive to back them up. Joss is trying to listen to Finch’s answer over the ringing in her ears, when John on her other side suddenly takes hold of her forearms and pulls her around to face him.

“Joss,” he says. His eyes look wild. It’s the only coherent thought she has before his mouth is on hers. She kisses him back, because, well, this is apparently how they work now. And it is nice to kiss him again after so long since the morgue, even though they really should be focused on the bullets and the bad guys and _not dying_.

John pulls away almost as quickly as he had grabbed her. “I love you,” he says simply, plainly, entirely seriously.

She blames it on the shock of his sudden confession, that she doesn’t realise what he’s planning to do before he does it. But the next moment he’s leapt to his feet and is racing away from her and Shaw, drawing their attackers’ fire.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Beside her, Shaw cackles.

There’s no time to be angry, not when John has decided that martyring himself is the best course of action. And with most of the fire directed towards John, she and Shaw are able to cover him the best they can.

They don’t die.

But it’s mostly due to Joss and Shaw, and Root and Fusco’s timely arrival, than John’s stupid fucking heroics. By some miracle, John seems to have avoided being shot.

He’s managed to get himself into a fistfight though. Joss rolls her eyes. Of course he has. What the _hell_ has he done with his gun?

She approaches John’s opponent from behind and unceremoniously cracks the butt of her gun over his head. The man crumples to the ground with a groan, fight over in an instant.

“Thanks.” John smirks at her like he hadn’t just professed his love less than fifteen minutes ago, then turns on his heel to head off, not even a goodbye, and to leave her with the clean-up to boot.

Joss stares after him a moment, dumbfounded.

The anger hits her very suddenly

_Oh hell no_.

She is so _done_ with this crap.

John has slipped into an alleyway, because he thinks he’s really slick, but it’s still early afternoon so the disappearing act is less than effective. Joss catches up to him, and without preamble launches herself at him, the momentum shoving him up against the wall. The rough brick scrapes over her knuckles.

“Wha–”

Before John can even properly get the first word out, she’s grabbed at the lapels of his jacket and pulled him down towards her. Really, half of her wants to slap him. More than half, probably. She settles on kissing him instead.

“You asshole.” She kisses him again, pre-empting any protest. “I love you, too.” And again. His lips are impossibly soft; he is impossibly warm. Affection and exasperation swirl within her, and it’s funny how familiar that feels; how little has changed at the same time that so much has. She lowers herself back down off her toes. “And I was going to let you come to me in your own time, but you seem determined to get yourself killed before you do, so no more waiting, okay?”

“Um,” John says.

She’s rendered him speechless. It feels good, considering how often it’s the other way around. And after weeks of these confessions from him that have left her reeling, she’s more than happy to return the favour.

She pokes at his shoulder. “Okay?”

His gaze clears as he focuses on her face. His smile stretches, languid and slow. The lightness from that night outside the precinct is back, making his eyes sparkle in the hazy afternoon sun. When he reaches for her, his hand is steady. His fingers are warm and familiar against the base of her neck.

“Okay.”

 


End file.
